


A Spoon Full of Sugar

by Whatsastory



Series: Ian and Mickey Do the ‘Dad,’ Thing [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Arguing, M/M, Mental Health concerns, Smut, bi-polar imbalance, unbeta’d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: Mind the tags, please!
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Ian and Mickey Do the ‘Dad,’ Thing [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594849
Comments: 33
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey groans and Ian pulls his hair harder, loving the way the back against his belly arches and sways with each move of his own hips. Mickey's head drops below his shoulders, and all of a sudden he's in a primal stance. He's animalistic and wild, and the sight is driving Ian fucking crazy. 

Distantly, he realizes that there's no need to be quiet. This doesn't have to be some quick fuck where they get in, get out, and get done. He can take his time. Feel the body beneath him. Feel Mickey whine and shudder and curse and moan. 

It's been a while since it's been like this; the need. Sure, they still fuck. Obviously they do. It's always been an important part of their relationship, long before it even was a relationship. But these days, it's either over before it even really gets good, or they're making love. 

And objectively, Ian doesn't mind making love. He loves it, obviously. He loves any time he gets to be with Mickey. 

But every once in a while, you need to let your frustrations out on your partner. And so that's what he's doing. 

"You fuckin' like that, Mick?" He pants, and when his answer is just a another guttural growl, he grins and swoops his hips down and back up to peg him at a different angle. 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Gallagher," Mickey breathes. Ian can feel Mickey's voice dance down his spine, and it only makes his pace that much more punishing. "You're gonna, ugh, gonna fuckin' break me." 

Ordinarily, something like that would make him go a little softer. Make his hips slow and change a little bit. But the way Mickey's growling like a fucking lunatic, arching his back so much that he looks like a fucking cat, Ian knows he wants it just like that. 

"Good," he tells him, leaning over his back and scraping his nails down his neck and to his chest. "Gonna fuckin' tear you apart." 

Both of his hands fall around Mickey's belly, and he hoists them both up to their knees. He's got free range now, a full, pale expanse of skin to explore with his hands and tongue. His hands rove over his ribs and across his pecs, his tongue down the side of his throat and up to his ear. And the whole time Mickey is just fucking mewling, slobbering like he can't fucking contain the... 

"Gallagher." 

Oh the way he says Ian's name. The way he still calls him that even though it's his last name, too. 

"Gallagher."

God he must really want it if he can't think of anything else to say. 

"Jesus, Ian. Wake the fuck up." 

Ian's eyes snap open to grey dusky light filtering in through the window and Mickey's wide eyes staring at him over his shoulder. 

"Bout time you wake up," he grins. "You were humping me like a bitch in heat." 

Ian takes stock of his body. His sweaty hair is plastered against his forehead. His breathing is labored. He's very noticeably hard against Mickey's ass, and his arms are gripped tightly around him. 

"Damn. Was a good dream," he smiles brightly at Mickey, who returns it in kind. "Kinda wanna keep it going."

Ian's lips creep along Mickey's jaw and Mickey preens at the attention, smiling and exposing the soft skin of his neck, hoping that Ian will move there next- and he does. He kisses over the spot just below his ear, and Mickey arches into the feel of it. Loves when Ian gets that perfect spot that makes his nerves sing. 

"You wanna fuck?" Ian asks the same sensitive spot, and Mickey nods faster than he ever has before. Ian's up and over him and pilfering through the bedside table for supplies before Mickey can even exhale. 

"'M gonna fuck you so good, Mick," he promises and sheathes himself securely in a condom. He wastes little time with prep for either of them, but Mickey's been taking it so long that he likes the sting of not being completely ready. Maybe he's a little bit of a masochist. 

He starts slow, as to not hurt Mickey, barely rolling his hips and bucking only a quarter of the way. But soon he picks up speed- a little more of a thundering pressure than he normally gives- and fuck, it's so good. It's so fucking good that he can't concentrate on anything but the feel of Mickey. The tight heat around him. The sticky pull of skin on skin. 

"Ian!" Mickey rasps, and digs his nails into Ian's forearm. "Stop, shit. Been telling you to stop for a full fucking minute. You're going too hard. Fuck." 

"Shit. My bad. I'm sorry. I was in the zone. I'll go slower. Are you okay?" 

Mickey nods his consent, and Ian starts up again, this time slower. Slow. Slow. Slow. 

But soon, it's not enough to taste that feeling but not get a full bite. He's hungry. Starving for Mickey's body, and soon his own body demands the craving be satisfied. 

So he starts going harder. Again. 

"Get the fuck off me," Mickey finally says, and reaches back to push Ian away from him. 

He stands up quickly, grabbing a discarded pair of sweats from the floor and stabbing each of his feet through the pant legs. 

"What? What's wrong," Ian asks breathily, grabbing for Mickey's body again. 

"Don't fuckin' touch me, Ian! I told you to fuckin' chill and you didn't. Jesus. You... you hurt me. I'm not in the mood anymore."

Ian opens and closes his mouth a few times, because he doesn’t know what to say. And more than that, even though he knows he shouldn’t be... he’s kinda pissed. Like, his finish was in sight and then... no, that’s fucked. That’s not right or fair to Mickey. Everyone should always have the right to stop. Full stop. Any time they want. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he sort of feels like his skin wants to crawl away from him, and there’s not much he knows what to do about it. Except, “I’m gonna go for a run.” 

~ 

The next morning when Mickey wakes up, he’s alone. He blearily reaches out across the bed, but only finds cold, empty sheets. 

Wiping at his eyes and raking his fingers through his hair, he pads down the hallway in the same old pair of sweats and scans the kitchen, which smells of coffee and toast. But it’s early. Far earlier than it would ordinarily smell that way. 

“Ian?” He calls out, and follows the sound of Ian’s reply to the living room. 

“The fuck are you doing?” He asks in disbelief at the sight of Ian doing push ups in front of the couch. 

“Working out. Couldn’t sleep.” 

Though it’s a nice sight, the ripple and pull of Ian’s back muscles with each movement. It’s still... there’s something... odd about it. 

“I’m wired,” Ian supplies, and flips to his back to start doing leg lifts. 

“Wired?” 

There’s a swoop in Mickey’s stomach as he watches, a distant memory fuzzing at the edges of his subconscious. It’s disconcerting, the way Ian moves. Paired with the clock that reads barely four AM, it’s downright fucking weird. 

“Yeah. I just. Laid down. Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run and still had energy. So I cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. Still couldn’t lay down. Thought I’d build some muscle if nothing else,” he smiles, almost too widely. 

And then it hits him. 

“You seen your doc lately? Your meds good?” 

“My meds? Yes, psycho. My meds are fine. I’m fine,” Ian laughs and jumps to his feet. He crowds into Mickey’s space, the heat and sweat of him sweeping into Mickey’s senses. 

Ian grabs him around his back and lets his hands slide down to cup Mickey’s ass. “Want me to show you how fine I am?” He asks and arches a brow suggestively. 

“Yeah, okay, tough guy. Just don’t wake up the kid.” 

~ 

They’re having spaghetti for dinner. As much as Mina’s changed over the four years of her life, she still loves it and asks for it all of the time. 

“Can I stir the sauce, Daddy?” She asks Ian, and he steps aside to give her space to work. She does it with little care, splashing it out on the stove and staining the white of the appliance with a bright red. 

“Careful, keep it in the pot,” he says, and she looks back at him with a grin and keeps stirring. Keeps slipping it out against the ceramic of the stovetop. Ian twitches imperceptibly, but lets it be. He can handle the mess. Momentarily. Until she’s done. And then he can clean it up. Can wash away her mess. Like he always does. Because this house is always fucking filthy and it’s not like Mickey cleans it the right way. Ian will do it. He always fucking does it. And correctly. 

“Can I dump the noodles, dad?” She asks next, and he shakes his head. 

“No. Too hot and heavy. You’ll get burnt.”

“Please, dad!” She huffs and stomps her foot. She’s got a temper on her. Always has. Spoiled. 

“I said no, Mina,” Ian tells her, using up much of his will power to keep his voice calm and steady. There’s just something about this day that’s under his skin and bouncing on his last nerve. 

“You’re not fair!” 

“Life isn’t fair!” He shoots back, and okay, admittedly, maybe he raised his voice just a little, so it’s justifiable that she stomps again and wanders off; probably to tell Mickey. 

His suspicions are confirmed when Mickey comes up behind him and grips at his shoulders. It’s not entirely unwanted, but at the same time he knows he’s about to get an earful. 

“Heard you yelled at the kid. She’ll have you know that you’re the worst fuckin’ dad in the whole big universe,” he chuckles, used to her antics. 

“Yeah, well she’s being a fucking brat today,” Ian practically snarls and dumps the noodles into the strainer. 

“Ay, easy, Red. I know she’s dramatic-” 

“Dramatic?” Ian laughs without humor. “No, she’s not dramatic. She’s out of fucking control, Mickey. She needs to watch her mouth and straighten the fuck up. I’m sick of her acting like she’s the parent around here. She needs to learn some fucking respect.”

Mickey takes his hands away and takes a few steps back, and when Ian turns to look at him, his eyes are slit and his jaw is set tight. 

“Look, man. I dunno what you’re fuckin’ problem is, but you need to chill your ass out. Don’t come for my kid.” 

“Oh, she’s your kid now, huh? So that’s how it’s gonna be? What, you want me to leave? God knows she’d be happier. You would too, wouldn’t you?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Ian. You know that’s not what the fuck I meant. Why are you looking for a fight?” 

There’s been only a few real fights that they’ve had since they’ve been married. Sure, they bicker... you try being married to Mickey and not fucking bicker. But this... this is something else entirely. 

“Whatever. Get your plate. Food’s done.” 

And just like that, the fight is apparently over. 

Dinner is mostly silent at first. There’s really just the scrape of forks on plates and quiet chewing. Until... 

“Do we have Parmesan cheese?” Mina asks. 

“No,” Ian tells her without looking up. 

“You were ‘spose to get some, though!” She whines. 

And fuck. That’s it. He can’t take the whining anymore. He can’t take both of them on his back twenty four fucking seven. It’s too fucking much. He’s about to explode. He’s seeing red. He’s over it. 

And then he picks up his plate and throws it at the wall. And it shatters into a hundred satisfying pieces. 

“Ian, what the fuck?!” Mickey barks, up and out of his seat like it’s on fire. He scoops his baby up and holds her protectively against himself, trying to soothe her through her sudden tears. 

And she has every right to cry. She’s scared. It was loud and scary and Ian is... Ian is scary. He scared his baby. His little girl. He scared her because he lost his temper. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and jumps to his feet, too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Daddy just got a little upset. I’m sorry. C’mere,” he says in a rush. 

“No!” She wails and buries her face in Mickey’s neck, wringing her arms around him for dear life. 

“You’ve gotta go to the doctor, man. What’s wrong with you? You said your meds are good!” 

“They are!” Ian yells back, and then, quieter. “They are.” 

“Look at the fucking wall and tell me you’re okay, Ian! You’re not fucking okay! Look at her. She’s fucking shaking because you’re acting like a lunatic!” Mickey yells at him and retreats further away. 

“I’m sorry. I just lost my temper for a minute. I’m okay,” Ian tries to placate, but Mickey just shakes his head. 

“You need to go to the doctor. Tomorrow. Or you need to pack your shit and get out. You’re not doing this in front of her.” 

Ian’s mouth falls open as he looks at his husband and his daughter. They both look terrified. They look like he did when he was little. When his mom wasn’t so great and Fiona locked them all in a room and barricaded the door to keep them safe. 

They look like he did when his parents would get in a drug fueled brawl. They look like he did when he couldn’t figure out why his family wasn’t like everyone else’s. They look like he never wanted them to look. 

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, okay I’ll go.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, Mina, you wanna help me with something?" Mickey asks from their now empty spare bedroom. 

She stands at the end of the hall, glancing toward Ian and Mickey's closed bedroom door, and tiptoes past it. Mickey's chest hurts at the sight, and honestly he's worried about their relationship. He knows it's not Ian's fault, not really, but she's still scared, and she has every right to be. 

"You won't wake him up. It's okay," he assures, and she skitters past a little quicker. 

"What ya need help with, daddy?" She asks and pointedly changes the subject. She raises her arms up and demands that he hold her- she's been doing it a lot in the past week. And he does without fail, every time. 

"We gotta paint your sister's room. She's gonna be here before we know it. And I think it would make her really happy to know that you helped get her room together." Mickey's been a lot softer with her since the... incident. Maybe he's babying her a little more than he ordinarily would, but when she looks at him with those big blue eyes that some how just seem sad, he can't help it. 

"You really think so?" She asks, and she sounds a little perkier with having a task. He can relate. 

"Oh, I know so. Aunt Mandy always used to get excited when I helped her with things. Little sisters are funny like that. They practically worship the fu-..freakin' ground you walk on. So, you in?" 

"I'm in!" 

He smiles at her, bright and open and hugs her to his chest, and she hugs back just as fiercely. Four years on and her hugs always seem to make him feel a little better, always a magic little charm. 

He helps her get dressed in a stained old outfit, one she wears when she plays in the mud, and pours some pastel yellow paint into a tray. 

"Why didn't you get pink?" Mina wonders and runs her hand against the synthetic fibers of her paint brush. 

"Why would I?" 

"Cause pink is for, is for girls, Daddy," she tells him.

Mickey shakes his head and dips his own brush to show her how to coat hers. 

"I don't think so. I don't think anybody has any color. It's just about what you like. You can like blue or green. Or pink. Doesn't matter. Shi-oot, we can paint your room black if you want."

"Hmm. I like that idea." 

Mickey smiles down at her with all of the love in the world. If he could have afforded it, there's no way in hell he wouldn't have had a black room when he was a kid, too. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Not with this one. 

"We'll make it happen if that's what you want, kid." 

He shows her how to edge around the side of the walls, careful to keep the paint from splattering on the floor too much. And she's a good study, surprisingly. She takes her time and listens to him. Doesn't argue when he corrects her. She's on her best behavior. And that's just not like her, but he knows what's wrong. 

"You wanna talk about your dad? It was kind of scary the other day." 

She keeps painting but doesn't answer him. She's quiet, though he does see her eyebrows raise up, so he knows she's taking everything that he says in. 

"Your dad sometimes... sometimes he gets a little... sick." 

"Is he okay?" She asks with genuine fear in her voice. Her brush stops mid stroke and she turns to face him head on, the blue of her eyes looking a little misty. 

"He will be. He just... doesn't feel good right now. But what happened the other night... that wasn't... that wasn't your fault. And it wasn't his either."

He drags his thumb across his lower lip, a nervous habit that he'd picked up years ago. Mina has the same tick, learned behavior that translated into a real manifestation of her anxiety. 

"You told him he'd have to leave. Why would you make him go if he was sick, Daddy?" She asks accusingly. And, okay, fair. But how do you explain to a little girl that he's worried for her safety? That everything he does is for her. 

"I didn't want him to have to go," he tells her truthfully. "But I needed him to go to the doctor so that they could help him. Your dad needs to go to the doctor regularly so that his medicine works the right way." 

"His medicine makes him okay?" 

"Right." 

She pinches her eyebrows together and sticks out her lips in thought. She's always been a thinker. Always too old for her age and too smart for her own good. 

"Then why is he still in bed? He's been in there for, for a lot of days." 

"Sometimes his medicine takes a while to work. But he'll be okay. It makes him a little sicker sometimes when he gets nervous. And with your little sister coming so soon... that makes his head sick. Does that make sense?" 

She picks her brush back up and begins filling in a little flower that she draws in yellow. She's quiet and pensive for a moment, just stroking the paint against the wall. 

"Can I tell you something, Daddy?" 

"You can tell me anything you want, Mina. I mean it." 

"I'm nervous for a little sister, too. Sometimes it makes my tummy hurt. Am I gonna get sick like daddy? In my head?" 

She looks so little when she says it. So scared and fragile. So he does the only thing he can do. He picks her up and holds her close. He hugs her and shushes away the tears when they start to fall. 

And then he feeds her and plays her favorite Barbie doll game and rocks her to sleep.

~

Ian’s awake when Mickey slides into bed. Mickey can tell by the way his breathing hitches when he presses up behind him and wraps his arms around Ian’s middle. 

“Come home soon, Ian,” he mumbles into his messy, greasy hair. “Please, baby. Please.”


	3. Chapter 3

It's two and a half weeks later when Mickey wakes up to an empty bed. It doesn't matter how much he grasps around to his right, the sheets stay cool and void of Ian's softly breathing form. He's... panicked? Excited? Nervous? He's a lot of things. So slides out of the solitude of his covers and throws on a pair of sweats and a tank and heads for the door. 

When he opens it, he's immediately hit by the smell of coffee and pancakes. Deep and dark and sticky and sweet all at once. And if that isn't a smell he didn't miss then there really isn't one.

His feet pick up the pace without him even really stopping to think about it, just go, go, go. Get to him. Be cautiously optimistic but just. Fucking. Get. To him. The hallway has never seemed so long, stretching on for what seems like miles and miles of desolate landscape until finally, fucking finally he breaches the mouth and is led to the living room; just one room away from the kitchen. 

There's a wall that blocks his view, but closer now, he hears the sizzle of cooking oil and the soft scrape of a spatula on a pan, and oh, it's just. Finally. 

The last month or so, Mickey's never felt so alone. He took care of the kid and the house and bills and cooking and cleaning and driving and shopping and even fucking getting their new baby's room together without any help. And that's not even the worst part. 

The worst part was seeing the dried out husk of Ian withering away right in front of him without being able to do anything more than forcing pills down his throat and cuddling up to his back and breathing in his unwashed hair at night. But now. Now, there's sound coming from just a room away and it's... a relief. 

He feels tears prickle at his eyes the closer he gets. Years ago, he would have wiped them away if he wasn't able to fight them off in the first place. He would have done everything in his power not to look like a little bitch. Not even when he was alone. But it's different now, and he doesn't care if it makes him seem weak. Ian's up and moving and it's all he could really want. 

Finally he's at the kitchen, standing next to the wall that divides it from the living room. Ian doesn't hear him, lost in the mechanical movements of making breakfast. He stands in front of the stove, just in a clean(!) pair of pajama pants. No shirt. But it's clear that he's been showered as judged by his dampened hair brushed back against his scalp. 

Mickey's breath hitches when he watches the muscles in Ian's back work as he flips a cake, and Ian whips at the sound. When he turns, he smiles, but it's shy and maybe a little embarrassed, and god, there's no need for all of that nonsense. 

"Hey, Mick," he says, voice low and raspy from disuse. He raises a shoulder and lets it fall as he stands there vulnerable and open, waiting for Mickey to say anything at all. Waiting to be scolded or told he's a disappointment, maybe. And what a stupid thing to think. "You hungry?"

Mickey doesn't say anything, but he clears the distance between them in no time flat, and pulls at the back of Ian's neck so that they're flush against each other. The other hand grips at his back, his hair, his arms. Anything he can touch. Anything to remind himself that this is real. 

"You okay?" He breathes, hot and wet against Ian's cheek before he presses a kiss to the now smooth skin. His voice is a soppy, stuffy mess, but who cares? 

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just a little tired. I feel better. I feel okay," Ian assures him, his own eyes growing a red rim. 

"They're working? The new meds?" Mickey asks and pulls back just enough to rememorize every single inch of Ian's perfect features. 

"Starting to."

Mickey stands still, just holding him, taking him in. Searching his eyes for the truth; looking for some of the vibrancy that usually pierces right through him. And if he looks closely, and he is looking, he can see it. Not fully, but it's there. 

"Daddy?" Mina's voice sounds behind Mickey, quiet and shy and much littler than she really is. 

"Hey!" Mickey greets, steeling his voice and wiping subtly at his tears. "Morning. Look who's up!" 

She looks to Ian, but then quickly back to Mickey, and pulls her lower lip in between her teeth. There's creases in her forehead that are far beyond her years; worry etched into her features that neither one of them had ever hoped she'd have. But the time for worrying is on its way out the door, and now's the time for mending fences. 

"I made breakfast- pancakes. Are you hungry?" Ian asks hopefully with a voice that's far cheerier than he surely really feels. But she's little and he's not an idiot. He knows he can't fix it in a day, but he can do this to start the road to recovery for them all. 

"A little," She concedes, but doesn't make a move for the table.

Mickey can't remember a time that she looked so tiny. Maybe the day he brought her home and put her in her at the time too big crib, but not lately. She just looks small, standing in her blue footie pajamas with her slouched shoulders and wide eyes. 

Ian can't remember that he's ever felt more hurt. Pissed at himself. Scared for his relationship with his daughter. Can't remember a time that he's hated himself more or wanted to repair anything more than this minute right now. 

"You can come with us, baby," Mickey says- and then internally cringes. He doesn't normally call her things like that; she hates being called a baby (I'm a big kid, dad!).

But she doesn't mind, or at least doesn't mention the endearment just now, and toddles up to Mickey and takes his hand, peering from around his legs to look up at Ian apprehensively. 

"Are you okay now, daddy?" She asks so earnestly that Ian feels physical pain. 

"I'm feeling a lot better," he says and squats down in place to get on her level. He stays where he is to extend her the courtesy of space, even though all he really wants to do is wrap her up and squeeze her tight. 

"Are you still mad at me?" 

And if Ian thought he was in pain before, it's nothing like this, like hearing her think it's her fault. Nothing like seeing misplaced hurt when it's entirely on him. 

"Mina, we talked about this," Mickey gently scolds, but Ian holds up a hand to shush him. 

"I wasn't ever mad at you, honey. I promise... it's just..." he flounders, grasping at the air as he tries to think. 

"Daddy said that sometimes your head gets sick," she offers up, and steps from behind Mickey's legs but still keeps the hold on his hand. 

"Yeah. Sometimes my head gets sick. That's a good way to put it." 

"And you went to the doctor? It's not sick anymore?" 

Ian's lips form a thin white line as he presses them together, searching for the best way to go about this. He could agree, tell her he's all cured and move on with his day. But what would that accomplish, really? He can't promise that he won't have a swing again in the morning. He can't tell her that everything is always going to be sunshine and rainbows. So he comes up with the only real solution; the truth. 

"Mina, I'm going to tell you something. It's a grown up conversation, and I'm sorry that we have to have it. But I trust you enough to tell you. Can you trust me enough to listen?"

She worries her lip a little more. Bites at it until it's red and angry looking, and peeks up at Mickey for guidance. 

"I think you should talk to him. He made you food," Mickey shrugs and she nods her agreement. "Do you need me to stay?" 

She pulls up her chair to the table and picks at a pancake, inspecting it for god knows what before she pours too much syrup over it and takes a big, sticky bite. 

"No, I don't think so. The pancakes are good."

Mickey's not sure what that has to do with anything, but he feels a little lighter seeing her comfort level. So he takes his own plate and cup of coffee and heads to the living room; far enough away to give them privacy, but close enough to be there in case anyone needs him.

Ian sits next to his daughter and coats his own food in maple, not really hungry at the moment but he needs something to connect with her, and maybe food is just the trick. 

"So how have you been? How's school going?" He asks as he takes a nibble. 

"It's okay. Pretty easy. We color a lot." 

"Yeah. Kindergarten is cake, but just you wait until next year when the real challenge starts." 

She hums in acknowledgement, but doesn't say anything else. Just lets the quiet sound of chewing settle over them. 

"So... I was pretty scary, huh?" Ian asks. Just goes for it because if he waits any longer he might just combust. 

"Yeah." 

"I'm sorry I did that. But it wasn't your fault, okay? None of it was your fault." 

"Daddy said I should watch my mouth. He said he's going to try, too. I'm sorry I cussed. I didn't mean it!" She squeals, and Ian can tell that she's on the verge of tears. 

"No, Min, that's not... well, maybe we should all watch our mouthes with your sister coming soon, but that's not... that's not it. Your dad... he told you my head gets sick, right?" 

Mina nods her head and wipes at her eyes as she watches Ian closely, like she's waiting for him to pounce or yell or break more of their shit and he hates himself for it. 

"Well, I have something called Bi-Polar..." 

"Like polar bears?"

The sides of her lips perk up and so do Ian's. His sweet little thing, so innocent. He loves her so much, and he'll do anything to repair what his illness has broken. 

"No so much. But you know how polar bears live in the North Pole?" 

"With Santa?" 

"Right. With Santa. And some cool penguins live in the South Pole, right? Well, sometimes my brain is a little like that. Sometimes it's north and sometimes it's south. But most of the time, with your and daddy's and some good medicine's help, I'm right in the middle. At the equator. When I'm at the equator, I feel good. Well, a couple of weeks ago I was in the south." 

"But now you're back? At the e-e-quay-ter?" She asks with all of the seriousness in the world. So wise beyond her years. 

"Now I'm back. And I'm ready to be your dad again. If you'll let me." 

She sits back and wipes at her mouth with a napkin, furrowing her Milkovich brows as she thinks it over. Ian holds his breath as he waits, ready to put in any work he needs to, but hoping that he can be forgiven. 

"Okay. You can be my daddy again. But dad, can I ask you something?" 

"You can ask me anything, Min."

"Next time you have to go to the South Pole, will you tell me first?"

“I promise to try my best. Can I ask you something? Do you think I can have a hug?” 

Mina doesn’t have to think about it this time. She launches out of her seat and settles into his lap, making him feel light and airy and o. Top of the world. 

Mickey comes back in not long after, and for the first time in a long time, they have breakfast as a family.


End file.
